Out On The Steps

Toward the end,

out on the steps, Ethel sharpened

her paring knives

for hours against the bricks.

Most days she got no farther,

so after school I’d join her,

whoever I was. She’d forgotten.

But she welcomed her sad new friend,

and taught me to disappear

into her scraping, into the cradlesong

her madness sang

to steady her hand’s rhythm, to pare

the grit down smoother. —Year by year,

face by name, depression by war,

child by child by funeral,

she’d made the hard flat tops relax

into little shallow troughs.

Some days they held a teaspoonful

of rainwater.

Today a gang of sparrows

came and fluttered themselves clean

of whatever drab manic sorrows

a sparrow has. Then dry again,

the red clay hammocks

undulated a melody

from bar to bar of mortar,

and I don’t know where the knives are.

Each blade already was pared away

to an inch-long silver

wedge, like a pelican’s profile,

or the full-frontal

post-stroke

half smile of a grandmother.

A knife too small for carving

even a Christmas quail,

but perfect for serving

her hiding places’

tiniest slices

of secret cake.

One for her,

and all I wanted for me.